


A Thousand Years Old

by sulkstiel (seriousface)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousface/pseuds/sulkstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right after 08x14 - Sam and Dean make their (long) way back to the bat cave. Sam spends some time reflecting, and recalls a conversation they had on the road. And then sex. Obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Years Old

They didn't talk much on the way back to the bat cave. Dean insisted on driving, of course, after Sam had done his best to minimize the hellhound's damage. They didn't talk much, but every so often Dean would glance over at him, as if waiting for him to clutch his head in one of those ESP headaches or demon blood withdrawal pangs or Lucifer clawing at his mind.

It was late by the time they got back. Two in the morning, three. They didn't have to come back, but their eyes glazed over stained motels and greasy diners when the prospect of a home, a real place to belong to stood out. Coming back to that decades-old incandescent light, the smell of so many books - but not like Bobby's, different, their own - it was a storybook castle and a responsibility they wanted. It was big enough that they could be apart for hours, always knowing the other was nearby, and safe.

Dean was stiff, dull coming home. Of course he hadn't slept since before they'd set out, and even if he wouldn't show it, Sam knew him, knew the way picking up his feet seemed to take a little more effort than normal. He made Dean tug his shirt off so that he could change the seeping wrapping he'd hastily fastened on nine-hundred-odd miles ago, and tried to leave him alone.

"Get some sleep."

Even so, they shared a couple beers. Dean sitting on the edge of his bed, Sam leaning in his doorway, eyes tracing the articles arranged on the walls a few days earlier. They could have stayed the night like this, talking or steeping in each other's company wordlessly, shared thoughts or memories drifting absently between the two of them, sometimes in sync, but more often in incidental proximity. They could have. But once he tipped back the last drops from his bottle, Sam left Dean alone and went back to the book he'd left behind before Kevin called, before Dean made breakfast.

He could tell when Dean fell asleep, though he didn't snore, and the room was far enough away that he couldn't hear his breathing.

And himself? Vaguely Sam wondered why he didn't feel sleep pulling at him. He hadn't slept during the car ride either. Or had he? It was hard to say. He didn't feel much altered after the spell, but all the same his skin seemed to buzz just enough to distract him from exhaustion. He couldn't read a page.

The smell of days-old beef drew his attention, eventually. The burger Dean had abandoned. He started to get up to throw it out, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it. All of a sudden that breakfast felt like forever ago.

 _Nesting_ , Dean had said, he was _nesting_. To think how eager he'd been to play at settling, to make a home, and then to hear him deliver his same old speech about giving it all up for _him_ , for his _little brother_ , for _Sammy_ to have that life - he felt at once like tightening to stone and crumbling apart. How badly Dean wanted an apple pie life, and how adamantly he refused to let himself consider it was heartbreaking. Still, even then Sam could understand it. What drove him to frustration was that Dean associated hunting with death, self sacrifice. Martyrdom- was that something he'd picked up from Cas? It didn't matter really. What hurt was how impossible it was to make him realize that sacrificing himself was worse than leaving. It was an insult, a vote of non-confidence. The hopelessness Sam had felt when Dean said yes first, after he'd clung so long to that shred of certainty in Dean, that one constant that he had, there was no comparison. Every taunt, every torture and every draining trial Lucifer had put him through had been overshadowed by the assurance that Dean could never give in, Dean, his big brother, could never give himself over to any supernatural slavery or temptation the way Sam had. Cheating death was one thing, but asking for it - hadn't he learned the first time around? Those last weeks before the hellhounds, hadn't Dean said he didn't want to die?

Sure, they'd talked little during the car ride back. But they'd had one familiar conversation. Maybe starting it the way he had was stupid, but it was too late now.

 _You're still human,_ he'd said, _you're a good hunter because you're human, Dean._

Dean hadn't said anything.

 _I've had Lucifer in my head, Azazel in my blood._ Dean had rolled his eyes, gripped the wheel tighter in worn hands.

_Sam, I tortured souls in Hell._

_Hell didn't need you-_

_Oh, what, because the God squad said so? C'mon, Sam. I thought you were finished with those jerks ages ago._

_Whatever the reason, Dean,_ he'd persisted, _they were right. We don't work unless we're together._

 _No, this is not together._ Dean had bit through every word. _You doing these trials alone, that is not us working together._

_Well, tough, Dean, find a way to deal._

He'd wanted to argue further, but Dean wasn't listening. Of course he wasn't. How could he? When three trials, in his view, ended inevitably in death?

Minutes had passed, maybe hours, before he spoke again.

 _The thing is, Dean,_ he'd started, _I'm okay. Really. This is the first time I've had these decisions to make without already being compromised. And I'm going to live, Dean,_ he'd emphasized this, willing Dean to listen even though he showed no indication of understanding, _or at least I'm going to try to. Because I'm okay._

If there had been an answer, it hadn't stood out. And the rest of the way they shared in an absence of words, letting their minds wander against a backdrop of music.

In a slightly uncomfortable way, Sam couldn't think of himself as a younger brother. Like this, with Dean asleep in the other room after being talked out of a kamikaze scheme, and with the pages at his fingertips and that buzzing in his skin, he felt a thousand years old. And Dean, his Dean, felt like something so small and breakable and precious, something he had to protect. Because this time, this time he was the one hanging on to life and to humanity.

How long had it been. Hours. The book on the table was still open to the same page. He glanced at the clock - five-thirty. He could hear Dean in the other room now and then, somewhat restless with the morning approaching, anchored in his peaky sleep schedule. Partly out of duty to the wounds, partly out of a bizarre sense of seniority, he made his way back to his post leaning in Dean's doorway.

Half an hour passed before Dean emerged to relative lucidity and spotted Sam. Half-sleep seemed to inspire emotional amnesia, and the smile on his face looked genuine, having forgotten, for the moment, everything they'd argued over in the last few days. For a moment.

Sam came over, bending over him to check the wrapping. Fragile Dean. Breakable Dean. Torn apart by hellhounds once before. And Dean watched him as he hovered over the wounds for a second too long, tugged at the bandage edges too carefully. Sam couldn't quite pull away.

Dean didn't let him try. One hand wrapped around Sam's wrist, permitting him to stay.

His own breath was loud and ragged in his ears and he couldn't understand it; and Dean, like nothing, Dean like soundless vapour was motionless beneath him. He'd fallen asleep with his jeans still on, of course, but it didn't seem to matter. He didn't move as Sam's fingers picked open the button, worked the waistband downward. Like putty, Dean moved where he willed him, watching always as Sam's face changed from worry to fear to defense to tenderness to helplessness and back again to worry. And then Sam's hair curtained his face as he bent down to press his lips under Dean's navel. Sam exhaled loud against the skin between Dean's hips, glad at the substance of his brother, relieved, for some inexplicable reason, to feel warm, solid flesh instead of soundless vapour.

He couldn't take his time. Jerking Dean's boxers down, he coaxed his cock to standing with words whispered against it, tiny, desperate licks and kisses at the head.

“Jesus, Sammy-“

They were the first words Dean spoke, and the sound of his voice, of his own name, seemed to resonate through Sam, through his buzzing skin. Sam pulled himself onto the bed, straddling Dean's legs while he hooked over his cock so he could hold its base with one hand and loosen his own jeans with the other. It wasn't long before his own precome was slick on his fingers, with Dean's cock hard against his lips, and he moved over him, nudging his legs apart perhaps too forcefully.

“Hey, _hey-_ “

Sam half-paused, looking to Dean.

“Slow down, champ.”

Dean twisted, reaching over the edge of the bed, wincing as the strain tugged on Sam's rushed stitches in his side. He flicked the little bottle of lube at Sam, cracking a smile at his frustration - swollen and obscene, interrupted in his pursuit by the slap of a plastic container bouncing off of sweating skin.

"Jerk."

And the way Dean's face bloomed, grin pulling wider and eyes darting upward before responding, voice cracking, _"Bitch,"_ was impossible, infuriating. His fingers were covered in lube, and then his cock, and then he was slathering Dean. He broke his urgency for just a moment after sliding in one finger, waiting a beat. Then the second finger. He watched Dean's pinched eyes, waited for his brow to relax. Slowly he worked him open, scissoring his fingers and letting his body remember. How long had it been? He returned his mouth to Dean's cock as he eased him open with his hand, wrapping his lips just around the head, then off, letting his breath wash over the saliva-moistened skin.

“Now?”

“Not yet,” Dean's voice was quiet, forced out between breaths, and Sam all but whined, acutely aware of the slippery erection pinned against his belly.

_“Now?”_

Voiceless affirmation. Sam kicked Dean's legs apart with his knees, lining himself up, and pushed in his cock, willing himself in every way not to jam it in. Holy _shit_ , he'd forgotten how warm it was. How _everywhere_ it was.

“Are you okay?”

“Fucking brilliant.” But Sam knew it hurt him. And it would have bothered him, hurting his brother visibly, if he wasn't grinding against him, twisting in the most ungodly way beneath him.

“C'mon Sammy. You gonna fuck me or do I have to do it myself?”

And there it was again. His name. The effect it had on him made him angry, embarrassed at how inevitably short this would be. He knew full well he couldn't last long, and every stroke he fucked Dean harder, sweeter. His mouth was all over Dean's chest, his shoulders, his neck, teeth grazing over skin and bone, tongue dragging against his collar and lapping up sweat from the hollow at the base of his throat. One hand tugged at Dean's cock while the other cupped his shoulder, both of Dean's hands twisting in his hair, pulling him upward wanting a kiss.

“Fuck. Stop. You'll burst your fucking stitches.”

“Then go faster.”

And he obliged. Again Sam was aware of his own rushed breathing, of his voice cutting through involuntarily, while Dean's was almost undetectable aside from the catches in his throat and the vulgar stream of words breathed or whispered the whole time. _FuckSammyfuckyoufeelsofuckinggoodkeepfuckinggrindingbabykeeppoundingthatperfectfuckingcock-doyouknowwhatI'mgonnadotoyouSammydoyouknowwhatI'mgoingtodotoyounexttimesweetlittleSammyboyI'mgonnafuckSammyfuckI'mgonna-shitI'mgonna-SammyI'mgonnacomeSamdon'tyoufuckingstopSammyI'mgonnacome-_ and

And Dean's cum was in strings between them. Sam was relieved to feel it, relieved to finally fucking finish as he quit holding on and let himself spill over a few pointed thrusts later.

Finally he let Dean pull him up for that kiss, half his hair torn out by now and knotted between Dean's fingers.

“That was good, Sammy,” Dean was talking with his mouth still brushing Sam's, “that was good.”

And he felt four fucking years old after that, baby brother Sammy looking up to strong and omniscient Dean. How, when he was pinned beneath him, half torn to shreds and freshly empty, Sam couldn't understand. But it felt as it should.

 

**Author's Note:**

> never thought i'd actually sit down and write wincest, but this was fun. and i couldn't help myself after last episode.


End file.
